


only god forgives.

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Dialogue Light, Gen, One Shot, Season/Series 03, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-30 18:42:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13957647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: She celebrates the impending ruin of Will Jackson and savors a drag on this winding road. On a midnight ride, Governor Ferguson indulges in a cigarette.





	only god forgives.

**Author's Note:**

> I based this around a very popular video circulating regarding the actors. Once you read it, I think you'll know the one! I'd like to thank the wonderfully talented cast of Wentworth for the inspiration.
> 
> While writing this, I had the album for the motion picture, Only God Forgives, on repeat. Cliff Martinez is a brilliant composer.
> 
> I own nothing and make no profit from this; it's all fun and games. Take care all!

 

A ruined man wanders down his driveway. Behind him, the sleek, shiny Nissan's car door slams shut. There's a brutality to Will Jackson, but it's unlike the neanderthal ways of Mr. Fletcher. After extensively being questioned by the cops, he drags his feet across hallowed ground. The heels of his boots grind against the asphalt.

“Do go well, Mr. Jackson,” Joan calls out to him from the cracked window.

The lack of a response confirms her suspicions.

He's tired, he's wasted, he's _jaded_.

A ghost of a smirk touches the Governor's lips. Oh, how she relishes the fact.

Smug satisfaction washes over Joan Ferguson as she watches Mr. Jackson disappear into his home. She notes the way his shoulders slump down and revels in the minute victory.

Tonight, there's no need to call Mr. Jesper. Her well-executed plan falls into place, piece by piece.

Knuckles flex. Leather gloves emit a dull groan of feeble protest. She grips the steering wheel tighter, harder. With a holy sense of self-worth, her overcoat acts as a cloak. Tension mounts in her shoulders. It comes with the job. Then again, that's the cost of formidable, calculated revenge.

The toe of her heel hits the gas pedal. She shifts gears. The monotonous task of driving is an art in itself. Joan leaves Will alone to his self-destructive devices. Every screw has their vice.

Her grinning, fox-like profile hides behind the tinted window. Coal, black eyes steal a glance at the rearview mirror. Like the coward he is, he hides behind the closed door of his home. At that, she tuts.

Rather than returning to her flat, she affords herself a detour. Deems it to be a reward. Tonight, she celebrates the impending ruin of Will Jackson and intends to savor a drag on this winding road.

It's a starless night, the air warm and muggy. Victoria’s sights blend and bleed together. Melbourne’s skyline promises a neon glow. This marks the regime of routine (now broken). Cruising down the endless road, there's something archaic about this. Sacred, borderline blasphemous. Money and proper connections, however, could rid her of any scandal.

Gravel and pavement crunches beneath the pressure of tires. Nothingness surrounds her. In pitch black, Joan of Arc eats up her time.

Gradually, the Governor eases out of her leather shell. The gloves come off. She lets her hair down despite the restraint behind the act. Piece by piece, Joan removes the bobby pins. To the cup holder, they’re condemned. Now, her mane rests in a tight ponytail. The band thumps against the base of her skull.

As relaxed as she’s capable of, she pursues the path most true. A quietude accompanies this. The radio remains off. No Stravinsky, no Tchaikovsky, and no Scriabin.

A single hand reaches for the glove compartment. With languid ease, she opens the slot. There, she locates a carton and a silver zippo. Confidence accompanies every gesture.

Arrogance graces her pale, once somber face. The side mirror projects the infinite stretch of the shadowed background left behind. This road to Hell’s been paved for the greater good.

From the carton, she shakes out a taste of death. Ruin dances between her fingertips. Her lips wrap around the tail end. The box dives back into the glove compartment, awaiting the next celebration. In a fast-moving vehicle, there’s no time to play around. To fiddle with the lighter.

She’s taken this away from the inmates. Yet, she indulges in it herself.

The lighter snaps. Friction leaves a memorable spark. Joan savors the monotonous click of the lighter, much akin to the rhythmic sound of a ballpoint pen. Black ink, of course. It catches Snaps like a komodo dragon, volatile to a bloody fault. Flint shrieks. The flame dances. So, she lights up her cigarette with great finesse.

In the dark, the tip shines. The glaring, red light cast a feeble glow over her. She shifts it to the corner of her mouth where smoke oozes out. This cruel device feels heavier than a gavel. For something so small and insignificant, there's a weight to it.

Under the pretense of the night, she covets the first drag. Toxic fumes invade her lungs. The Devil exhales. She purses her lips. Blows out a smoky ring. There is nothing pure about this.

You wouldn’t expect this from her.

On a midnight drive, cruising through the city streets, one hell of a woman unwinds. The vibrant, gaudy lights illuminate her saintly profile. In due time, she'll burn for her bloody sins.

A serpentine twist in the road guides her along this neon dream scheme. The streetlights bestow her with a broken halo. Billboards and gaudy, pink signage speed by.

Ashes scatter. They trickle down, down, down. The grey matches her temples; stress and age take their toll, that's the cost of living. Joan flicks the excess away. Disposes of the evidence out the window. The systematic twitch of her lips boldly suggests a flaw in her code.

Fixating on the glowing ember, she resembles a smoking dragon. Enveloped in a haze, she inhales. It dangles from her slightly parted mouth. Smoke scorches her nostrils. It remains a welcome reprieve. It fills her hollow soul with vapid introspection.

Akin to a flash in the night, old memories haunt. Life remains on a scale of “before Blackmoore” and “after Blackmoore.” Her steely stare hardens. Her throat tightens. Even now, she doesn't dare whisper the name of a young woman who turned her life around. Her name is holy, untouchable, _sacred_.

In one corner of her mouth, it dangles.

The cigarette rapidly reaches its end.

With that, she expels everything.

Like another mattress caught ablaze, this too sizzles and burns. The glare threatens to blind.

And just like that, it dies. She flicks out the butt, uncaring of its final destination.

 _Sic transit gloria,_ Joan muses. She doesn't waste her breath on her inner monologue.

Reduced to dust, shrunken remnants sail out the cracked window. The subtle smell of smoke clings to her lapels. Her hooded eyes regard the lonely, swaying stoplight. Her car slows to a halt, purring in anticipation of the next move. From the scene of the crime, she speeds away.

The taste of nicotine lingers on the dry tip of her tongue and clings to the roof of her mouth. In a vise-like grip, she clutches the steering wheel. To her den, the Governor returns with the cigarette's corpse shriveled on the side of the weary road. That cryptic, phantom smile holds onto her thin, quirked mouth.

Come tomorrow, back in the hole, God will manipulate the CCTV screen.

 


End file.
